


Lay Me Down

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BBC, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Choose Carefully, Choose Your Own Ending, Drinking, Have Fun Guessing, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confession, M/M, One Doesn't, One Hurts, POV John, POV Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock To The Rescue, Suicide Attempt, Two Endings, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:15:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a speech. It would start out with his apology, obviously. John always hoped for an apology whenever he thought Sherlock was doing something a bit not good, and well, this could be considered a bit not good. Lying. Faking a suicide. Sherlock had known it was going to hurt John, but really, it was for the best. It was for John’s safety. And Sherlock would explain all of that. Sherlock would be a hero in John’s eyes and just as soon as Sherlock saw that John was overwhelmed with relief and love and joy, he would confess those pesky three words that every person so longed to hear. Those pesky three words he so longed to say, because he knew in those moments he was no better than any other human when it came to love.</p><p>Everything reminds him of Sherlock. The couch, the skull, the smiley face on the wall. Experiments left unfinished in the kitchen, the dust on his desk. His chair manages to look the same, like its waiting for Sherlock to come into the room and sit down. John knows he’s certainly waiting for that to happen. The only difference now is the chair looks so blatantly empty, and John can’t help but wonder if he looks the same. He most definitely feels like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Sherlock figured he could withstand another thirty minutes before passing out. It was at the point he was barely registering the hits to his face anymore. However, he happened to notice that those around him were exhausted, knew they only had another five minutes before they called it a night. They would begin again in the morning, giving Sherlock little time to recover, but that was alright. Mind over matter, he reminded himself. He could do this because he was doing this for John.

            He closed his eyes and invited the darkness in as those trying to pry the truth from him left. The lights went out and a door shut. Sherlock relaxed, exhaling a long, low breath. Pain began to settle over his muscles, but it was muted by the white light at the end of the tunnel; by his thoughts of John, remembering what it was like to stand by his side, dreaming of what it will be like to sleep next to him.

            There was a speech. One that Sherlock knew would woe John, convince John of his love. It would start out with his apology, obviously. John always hoped for an apology whenever he thought Sherlock was doing something a bit not good, and well, this could be considered a bit not good. Lying. Faking a suicide. Sherlock had known it was going to hurt John, but really, it was for the best. It was for John’s safety. And Sherlock would explain all of that. Sherlock would be a hero in John’s eyes and just as soon as Sherlock saw that John was overwhelmed with relief and love and joy, he would confess those pesky three words that every person so longed to hear. Those pesky three words he so longed to say, because he knew in those moments he was no better than any other human when it came to love.

            In his mind, Sherlock could clearly hear John’s voice in his ears, as though he were right there next to him. It allowed Sherlock to pretend for a moment that he was back in 221B Baker Street once again. He could pretend he was hearing John whisper ‘I love you, too’ as they drift off to sleep in their bed together.

            A smile slid across Sherlock’s face. He kept his eyes close, his imagination taking off now. He could almost actually feel the warmth of John nestled against his chest instead of the cold, dank air in the cellar he currently was located in. For a moment, he could almost smell John, the hint of spicy body wash and cologne. The fresh smell of his jumpers. It made him think of home. What home should always feel like. Comforting. Caring. Loyal. That was his John. That was what he was fighting for.

 

 

            The alcohol burns as it sloshes down John’s throat. His face scrunches up as he tries to bite down a shudder. It feels good. It’s the only good he feels any more. Thinking about that day hurts like nothing else John has ever experienced, and he knows he’s experienced quite a bit in his days as a medical doctor in the army. He knows what he’s lost. He knows where it’s all led him. He knows how it all affected him. John Watson is no fool. Or at least he hadn’t been.

            Everything reminds him of Sherlock. The couch, the skull, the smiley face on the wall. Experiments left unfinished in the kitchen, the dust on his desk. His chair manages to look the same, like its waiting for Sherlock to come into the room and sit down. John knows he’s certainly waiting for that to happen. The only difference now is the chair looks so blatantly empty, and John can’t help but wonder if he looks the same. He most definitely feels like it.

            John casts his blurry gaze around the flat, his mind firmly on Sherlock. The actual physical pain that usually follows is ready and waiting, springing to life at full force. Like two years hasn’t passed. He remembers the look on Sherlock’s face, the whole image of him branded on John’s eyelids. He can hear Sherlock’s last words. Goodbye. Well, at least one of them had the chance to say it. John knew he never would, never could.

            A loose thought skitters across John’s mind, making him remember the day they met. It’s a day that doesn’t often come up, often too wrought with painful feelings, but when it does, it always surprises John. It brings a smile to his face, one that is no longer even reminiscent of the old smile he used to wear. Now, there’s a fractured look to it. But it’s a smile nonetheless. It’s followed by a strange sound- a huff of laughter that sounds more like a painful grunt. He thinks about how he’d give anything to go back to that day just to say hello since he never really had the chance to say that either. That it’s something he’d like to say. But there’s something else he feels he would like to say more.

            Taking another drink, John lets the thought slide away as he savors the burn in his throat. But a new thought takes its place, a dangerous one. Death. Suicide. Why not? He has nothing else left to live for. There’s no reason for him to keep breathing. It’s… it’s boring. It’s dreadful. It’s killing him as it is. Why not just speed up the processes? Hell, he could start right there. Drink himself into a blessedly early grave. At least then he could be beside Sherlock once again. Lay by his side six feet under.

 

 

            He spits out blood, deductions rolling off his tongue with ease. Today is nothing like the other days. The beating, the torture, its lighter than normal. They’re beginning to trust him, and they, to their own knowledge, have no reason not to. Sherlock has yet to steer them wrong. Then again, with leaders dropping like flies these last two years, Sherlock doesn’t blame them for the extra precautions. They’d be idiots otherwise. Well, much larger ones anyways.

            If he were being honest with himself, the only thing really bothering him anymore is how long this all was taking. Any other day, any other time, Sherlock loved a drawn out case that could keep his full attention. But now, instead, it wore on him. It kept him away from John. What killed him most, though, was knowing he’d have to stay away from John longer yet because the only way to handle this case properly, the only way to make sure John was safe after all was said and done, was to move slow and not make mistakes. And perhaps the fact that he would now have to hide a newly acquired limp, some scars, a burn or two. At least for a while. Until everything was back to normal.

            It was going to all be worth it though, in the end. He would be graced with John’s smile every morning. He would get to listen to John ruffle the pages of the morning paper, hear him hum as he went about making breakfast. He would get to watch John Watson grow old, happy, and safe. They would be together, by each other’s sides, and it would be as perfect as ever.

 

 

            There are silent tears on John’s cheeks now as he stares down at Sherlock’s grave. He’s completely wasted, holding a less than half empty bottle of bourbon in his hand that was full this morning. Yet his only regret is not visiting sooner. The site looks mildly untouched. Dying flowers from Mrs. Hudson, a card from Molly, and… a riding crop? There was a ‘W’ inscribed in the handle. And there was bird shit crusted across the front of sheen black stone.

            John wished he had never stopped visiting, had kept up the maintenance at the site. He should’ve planted fresh flowers and kept it cleaned up. Maybe found a frame for the cards. Then again, gardening was never his thing. He killed a cactus once in sixth grade science. But he could do the rest. Sherlock deserved that much.

            He remembered what had been the first and nearly last time that he had ever stepped foot near this plot of land. It had been the day of the funeral. People showed up, said their words, and departed all before the clock struck noon. John had been there longer, much longer. He had stared into shiny black surface of the tombstone that read Sherlock’s name for hours, only seeing his own broken expression.

            Sometime around mid to late afternoon, John gave up pleading in silence and actually began to spew nonsense. Or at least it felt like nonsense. John had managed to swallow a few shots before showing up because it was a day he knew he couldn’t get through sober. He begged with an invisible, not listening, dead Sherlock to come back, to give him one last miracle, something to believe in. He’d actually managed to dilute himself into thinking he’d seen Sherlock beside a tree in the reflection on the tombstone. That whole day had been like walking through a nightmare. As though it hadn’t happened. It worked for about an hour, but then he had walked back into his flat and he dropped to his knees after that.

            Now, there was no image of Sherlock, drunk as he was. No, instead he was just alone.  He stepped back a step, staggering, and desperate for some concept of balance. His legs wobbled and gave out, causing him to drop to his bum. The world swirled and tried to straighten itself as John took another swig from his bourbon. There was barely any left, another large disappointment for the day.

            With a heavy sigh, John sat back and admired Sherlock’s tombstone. Dirty as it was, it was still beautiful. The letters spelling out Sherlock’s name were still sharp and sleek without any discoloring. The stone was still reflective enough that John could still make out his lines of his face. Next to it was empty space and John began to wonder how a tombstone with his name on it would look. Would his headstone be black too? Or grey or red? What would it say? Sherlock’s didn’t say anything because that’s what Mycroft said Sherlock wanted. Right. Sherlock, who should’ve outlived God fighting for the last word. Mr. Punch line. He should’ve been there, showing off. Or John should be with him, dead.

            He decided his tombstone, no matter how it looked, would look rather nice beside Sherlock’s.

 

 

            His heart thundered over the sound of footsteps rustling hurriedly after him. Above, there was a helicopter, its searchlight flashing through the trees trying to find him. He could feel the wind from its blades as the spun, whipping loudly through the air. He’s completely surrounded, and without a doubt Sherlock already knows he is going to be captured. Though he’s not the slightest bit worried. This had been his last stop. The last piece. The string that pulled all the rest of Moriarty’s network apart. It put him firmly a breath away from John’s arms, from being home. Nothing could keep him from it anymore. He wouldn’t let it happen.

            He smiled. Sherlock could see John’s stormy blue eyes already, see the lines his smile would form around them. It would happen every time John caught Sherlock in his sights. The same had always happened to Sherlock any time John was around, even if he was just on Sherlock’s mind. That’s how it was, how it would always be. Especially once Sherlock finished up with Moriarty’s network.

            Hopefully this time when Sherlock was reunited with his flat and flatmate, only one bedroom would be needed. His speech was perfect now. All the errors found and fixed. There was a one in ten chance, really, that John wouldn’t be swayed enough to forgive Sherlock and reject him completely. But he was confident. Really.

            They capture him. They beat him. He thinks of John. Something- someone familiar flashes before his eyes, but it’s too quick and he’s too distracted to think about who. Then he hears the voice. That voice, that annoying voice. The voice of the one who prolonged his stay away from John, the one who was letting this drag out. The one who didn’t step in. Mycroft.

            Sherlock spews another deduction, wiggling his way into some alone time with his brother.

            “Time to return to Baker Street, brother dear,” Mycroft says into Sherlock’s over grown curls. A smile slides across his face. Of course it is. It’s time to return to John. To stand by him and never leave it again. At least for no extended period of time.

 

 

            Wobbling a bit, John leans forward to peer over the edge. It isn’t busy and no one seems to notice him as he looks down over the edge at the continuing lives of the oblivious. He’s on Saint Bart’s rooftop. It had felt like the dramatically poetic thing to do. His heart races wildly, but he had every intention on continuing to drown it with another bottle of bourbon. He has no idea where this one came from, doesn’t remember grabbing it from any fridge or store. He doesn’t really care.

            John thought of Sherlock, causing a funky wave of emotions to slosh around in his stomach- or perhaps it’s the alcohol. He can’t really tell anymore. The alcohol has left him rather numb feeling. But he couldn’t deny the fascination and wonder his mind always held when he thought of Sherlock. Or even the love.

            With a gruff laugh and wiggle of his arms to regain his balance, John remembered the moment he truly fell in love with Sherlock, or at least the moment it hit him the hardest. He remembered watching helplessly as Moriarty shredded Sherlock’s reputation, watching as Sherlock held it together all so well. At least on the outside. It broke his heart to see, but he stuck by Sherlock, refusing to doubt him. He believed whole heartedly in Sherlock.

            John thought about the only time Sherlock actually seemed to lose it during Moriarty’s trial and all that followed. Sherlock had accused John of doubting him. He thought John had fallen for it like everyone else, that he was simply a blind sheep following the heard. But John hadn’t been. John had stood still, firmly at Sherlock’s side. He knew beyond anything that Sherlock would come out on top of it all. Clearly, he’d been wrong. Sherlock didn’t come out on top. Sherlock fell six feet under.

            He remembered how Sherlock had ranted after Jim’s trial. His eyes were so alight with fire and rage. He demanded to know how those jury members could so easily let him walk knowing all the people he had killed, the damaged he had done. Sherlock went on and on about it. The buildings Moriarty blew up. The people. He mentioned a time or two John’s incident with a bomb strapped around his torso. It was almost terrifying. It made him look like a different person. Someone in a much darker place, but it was still someone John could understand after losing friends in war. It was passionate, and the way he cared for those people; John didn’t even think Sherlock realized how human he sounded in that moment. He had wanted to say he loved the crazed man right there.

            With a desperate ache, John wished he had said so much more to Sherlock. Perhaps, when all was said and done, when John was buried six feet below, and there happened to be an afterlife, he could say all that he needed to. After all, the afterlife was nothing short of an eternity.

            John smiled and finished off the rest of the bourbon like it was nothing, the burn no longer effecting him. Why should it? With how much he’d consumed, he was certain that his body’s seventy percent water was replaced by both cheap liquor and aged bourbon. Yet it did nothing to fill the aching void in his chest.

            With it empty, John tosses it aside, and listens to it smash in the distance as he wipes his lips. He feels himself wobble with all the movement, and he nearly falls before he’s ready. His heart leaps into his throat, but he manages to catch himself. He laughs again, thinking he’ll end up joining Sherlock before he can get his thoughts together.

 

 

            Sherlock’s body ached and he more than simply knew it. Today, he actually felt it. It radiated through his nerves and settled over his muscles. He couldn’t relax properly in the chair as his hair was trimmed and his face shaved clean. Mycroft was speaking, saying something annoying. For a moment, the only thing to fully catch his attention was the fact that Mycroft was slipping. Taking a couple of hours to learn a new language he already knew the basics for was a new low, and it filled Sherlock with a deep satisfaction.

            Until Mycroft mentioned John.

            It had started out with Mycroft’s audacity, saying how he had saved Sherlock. Obviously no such thing occurred. Mycroft just appeared at the end of the run. Mycroft, who could have helped Sherlock when he needed assistance. Mycroft who could have done the job himself, better too if he had anything to say about it.

            After this, Sherlock mentally swore never to actually take on any of Mycroft’s cases, not unless they directly affected someone he actually cared about, unless it affected John. Otherwise, other’s be damned. Sherlock had a vision for a future, and he wanted it like nothing else.

            Sherlock slipped on his coat and left Mycroft in his office with his personal assistant. He hailed a cab once outside and his heart danced as he thought about seeing John again. All thoughts of Mycroft were shoved into a dark corner to be dealt with later. Maybe. He really didn’t care enough at the moment to think further on it. There was only John at the moment, what his face would look like when he realized Sherlock wasn’t dead, what it would feel like when they embraced, how John would react to Sherlock admitting his love.

            A smile slid across his face as he took in all the familiar sights and sounds. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll down his window and stick his head out like a happy pup by the all together need to act like an adult. Mycroft would be proud.

            In his pocket, Sherlock’s phone began to go off, vibrating madly. Sherlock pulled it from his coat. Speaking of Mycroft, he couldn’t help but think a little begrudgingly since he hadn’t really wanted to think about his brother any further. Especially today.  He wanted to go over his speech again. He wanted to work out any possible flaws in this plan.

            He answered the call anyways saying gruffly, “My god, I’ve only been gone for four minutes. What war could you have possibly started now?”

            “Get to Saint Bart’s, now,” Mycroft instructs sharply. “John’s about to jump.”

            When the line goes dead, it’s as though the world is suddenly moving too fast and Sherlock can’t keep up. His mind stops working all together for a brief moment where he can actually feel his heart fumbling around in his chest. He can actually feel the world drop away from his feet. This can’t be right. This can’t be happening.

            “Saint Bart’s,” Sherlock says hastily changing the address as soon as his voice returns to him. But it was only half of his voice and he ends up croaking.

            All at once, Sherlock’s mind picks up. His thoughts race faster than ever before, as though he’s racing to the conclusion so he can show off. Only this time there is no one to show off for, and if he didn’t hurry, he never would.

            Apart of him wishes to blame Mycroft. He wants to blame his brother for not helping him, for not allowing this to go easier than what it was. He wants to blame his brother for sending him out there in the first place. He wants to blame that moron for even letting Moriarty become a big enough threat and feeding him information without getting anything in return.

            But he can’t.

            Sherlock knows he can’t.

            He turns the blame to himself and guilt claws everything inside his chest to bits. He lied to John. There were no excuses around it anymore, though he had tried to dilute himself over the course of his two years off the radar. Sherlock had lied to his best friend, the man he loved most in the world, and let John think he was dead. If things had been reversed, he couldn’t say the outcome would be much different. When there was no hope, no sign of any… miracle.

            Sherlock’s fingers were quick, tapping away at his phone. It was a number so familiar and yet so long unused- well, uncalled. Sherlock had on more than one occasion typed in John’s number on a phone, had on more than one occasion hit dial (it had been in the very beginning and he had hung up before the first ring).  But now, now he didn’t hang up. He listened with his breath held and his heart exploding inside his chest as the phone rang. 


	2. Ending One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry. I've resolved with not saying which is happy and which isn't.

            At first, he almost doesn’t hear it. His phone. It’s going off in his pocket, frantically begging for him to answer, but John ignores his phone, each ring pushing him closer to the edge. He didn’t care who it was, ‘important’ or otherwise. He couldn’t even be bother to silence his phone. Whoever it was, they were just too late. They weren’t important enough anymore. No one was more important than Sherlock, and nothing was more important than seeing him again.

 

            Sherlock presses his mobile to his ears a little harder as though that will magically force John to answer his phone faster. It doesn’t. John doesn’t answer at all, simply going to voicemail after it rings out. But Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to dwell on _why_ John isn’t answering his phone (he’s tossed it aside, he doesn’t have it… he’s already jumped), only that he isn’t, that he should be called again. Sherlock hits redial over and over, pleading with a God he didn’t think he would pray to. He focuses on the sound of each ring, lets it grow inside his mind, visualizing it because it’s so much better than visualizing John on the roof of Saint Bart’s. It’s better than wondering what he was thinking. What he was seeing. How fast his heart was beating… if it was beating.

            No, Sherlock told himself. He wasn’t going to be too late. He was going to save John just in time.

            His chest hurts. Everything hurts. From his head to his toes, and he wishes he could’ve gotten home sooner. No, he thinks again, trying and failing to breath. He can’t dwell on the fact that Mycroft could’ve helped him sooner, that Mycroft shouldn’t have sent him in the first place. What he really doesn’t want to dwell on is the fact that he lied to John. If he hadn’t lied, John would be back at the flat just waiting for Sherlock to return.

            Again, Sherlock was going to hit redial, but the cab had stopped. Sherlock was quick, jumping from the cab and pressing redial. He turned on his heel, phone tight to his ear, eyes searching. It didn’t take long, but Sherlock could hear John’s phone ringing. It was distant and soft.

            He had hoped, but like a bug it was squashed as soon as his eyes darted up. His heart stumbled in his chest and Sherlock struggled to keep from collapsing as he spotted John standing there with his eyes closed.

            As the phone rang again in Sherlock’s ear, John stepped over the ledge.

 

Sherlock didn’t feel himself run or hear himself screaming John’s name. He was not aware of the people around him as he shoved them aside. He didn’t care about the cars heading his way as he jumped over them. And he had no clue where the strength to run was coming from. Sherlock had no clue where his strength for any of it was coming from. To move, breath, think, speak.

His eyes stayed on John’s face, on the disturbingly calm expression that he wore. It was so peaceful, so perfect, so beautiful, but it hurt so much. It was the expression Sherlock had imagined on John’s face the day they would get married, not the day John decided he didn’t want to live anymore. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. None of this was supposed to happen.

He watched as John hit the pavement, knew the sound would haunt him for the rest of his life. In his chest, his heart snapped in half before falling and shattering completely, and every bit of strength Sherlock had on reserve left him. His legs gave out and he landed with a whimper that had nothing to do with his scrapped palms.

Pain exploded deep within his chest and the flames of it spread through his body in seconds. It washed over his organs, through his muscles, and in his veins. It consumed him completely. Burning and burning, Sherlock struggled  to his hands and knees to crawl the remaining distance between him and John. Miles, it seemed like, but it was mere meters.

Sherlock made it to John’s side, pulled the limp body of his flatmate, blogger, doctor, of his heart into his arms. He checked for a pulse in the wrist, at the neck. He opened John’s eyes, half expecting that same glittering light to shine through the blue, but there was nothing. All of it added up to nothing. There was no life in John Watson’s body.

“John!” Sherlock screams again, his voice rougher than before. He chokes out a sob. This can’t have happened. This can’t be real. But it did and it is and it hurts. Everything just hurts in this horrifyingly indescribable way that just keeps growing stronger with each second John’s heart fails to beat. “Please, John!” Sherlock hollers again. He knows it hopeless. He knows that John didn’t just stop breathing, that he can’t easily be resuscitated. John’s been smashed to bits on the inside. Just like Sherlock.

Again, Sherlock becomes unaware of things. He doesn’t notices the tears streaming down his face or the fact that he’s actually still screaming for John. He isn’t aware of the crowd around him or the person trying to fight his or her way through it. Sherlock doesn’t feel it when someone (Lestrade, he’ll later find out) grabs him. Only when that person tries to separate John and him does Sherlock become aware.

He lashes out.

He couldn’t let go.

He couldn’t say goodbye.

 

 

 

Sherlock is holding flowers in a death grip. Mrs. Hudson’s idea to bring them since he hadn’t known what else to do. There were still tears in his eyes. Really, a day didn’t go by anymore without them. Sherlock couldn’t even feel them anymore. The only indication he had anymore was when his sight went blurry. Like at the cemetery, right now, as he gazes down on John’s tombstone.

Black, neat, reflecting the only bit of sun there had been in weeks (days really, but time felt like an eternity). He can see his own reflection in the stone. It’s not a pleasant one either, though it wasn’t like he was surprised by it. There were circles beneath his eyes, and he was certain he’d lost a few pounds too many for him to even resemble human. He wasn’t even entirely sure how he was still standing.

His mind conjures up the image of John on the day of Sherlock’s fake funeral. Sherlock recalls how strong John tried to look, how he held back most of his tears when people were looking, how he tried to hold out hope there, even at the end. Begging for one last miracle from Sherlock.

If only Sherlock had been able to then.

The thought causes Sherlock to reach into his coat pocket. He pulled out a flask that had once been John’s and took a massive drink. Whatever stash he had of anything had long since been tossed out by John or Mrs. Hudson, but John had kept the place well stocked in bourbon. Enough to poison an entire nations army worth of livers, or at least close to it. And honestly, it didn’t take Sherlock long to figure out why John had it that why.

It was just so easy. Whether he mixed it with something else or if it took it straight from the bottle (his preferred and only method), the alcohol was right there. And if he ran out, just right down the block, there was more. There was always more and Sherlock was grateful because there was an endless voice that needed filling.

For a moment, Sherlock starts to argue with himself about how he should’ve told John. He beats himself up internally, takes another drink, and sighs. It’s a broken sound. He’s broken. He’s just so broken and it doesn’t seem like that’s ever going to change. Sherlock doesn’t see himself smiling ever in the future, doesn’t see himself laughing in the future. Sherlock doesn’t see a future. There is only the headstone in front of him.

Sherlock takes another drink from the flask and it’s empty like him. He wants to go home to refill it and come back, but his feet won’t move. His attention has finally caught onto something beautiful.

John’s headstone is nestled nicely next to Sherlock’s own. It’s a perfect sight, though one he thought he’d never have to see. He had always thought when this moment happened, they’d both be in the ground. Preferably of old age… but… that didn’t mean Sherlock couldn’t have at least half of that dream. It didn’t mean that Sherlock still couldn’t lay beside John for the rest of eternity. It didn’t mean that Sherlock couldn’t fill his own coffin, this time without a big show or falsities. Hell, he had one foot in the grave already with how quickly he’d taken to drinking, with how much he had already consumed during his long days and hopeless nights.

Really, it was the best he could dream of. All he had to do was finish what he started those years ago on that roof top. It was the last hope he had to be beside John again. Forever. 


	3. Ending Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry. I can't bring myself to say which ending it happy and which is loaded with feels.

            In his pocket, his phone rang, but he chooses to ignore it. Really, he just wants to dig it from his pocket and throw it as far away from him as he can. It’s the same crap mobile he had when Sherlock had made his decision. It’s the same crap mobile John heard Sherlock’s last words through. But he can’t bring himself to reach into his pocket. John knew he’d be just as tempted to answer it. He couldn’t do that. Whoever it was… they were just too late. John… he had places to be, and one particular person to see.

            John closed his eyes, thinking it would feel easier to just freefall into the darkness that had been trying desperately to pull him down. His mobile rang again. And again. And again. It just kept ringing, no matter how many times he let it just ring through. So, when it rings again, he actually digs into his pocket to whip it, to rid himself of one last weight on his shoulders.

            The phone is wrapped in his fingers and his muscles ready to rear back and toss it, but one sound, one single syllable reaches his ears. It’s all too hauntingly familiar. A voice, one that has been in every single nightmare every single night for the last two years. Sherlock’s voice.

            His eyes shoot open and he looks down, heart pounding. For a moment, he thinks he’s already dead. That he fell and he died not feeling a thing. But John knows he didn’t. His phone is still ringing. So he pulls it from his pocket, unable to believe the number popping up on the screen.

            He doesn’t want to answer.

            He can’t believe it’s true.

            He answers it anyways.

            “John, please step away from the ledge!” Sherlock’s voice begs, trembling. “Please, I’m not dead. I’m right here.”

            There he is.

            John’s eyes find Sherlock standing by a cab, his face blanched. He looks like a ghost. Maybe he is. John can’t help but think perhaps he’s gone crazy. But he’s not. A nagging, tugging, clawing, desperate feeling that rekindled a spark of life in his soul says he’s not crazy. There are words in his mind that play over and over, slowly getting louder as they draw nearer to the surface.

            _It’s a trick. It’s all just a magic trick._

            After so many cracks in his heart, John barely notices another one that shreds him closer to nothingness, but he feels the flash of anger wash over him like a riptide when he realizes he’s been lied to.

            And it feels so good.

            Rage bubbles in his stomach, boils into his chest, rushes through his veins. Sherlock had lied to him, left him behind. Sherlock had done it all knowingly. It was Sherlock, after all. Of course there was no way he couldn’t know what all of this had done to John. He had to have known that this, that everything leading to this, was going to destroy the very being that had been John Watson.

 

            Guilt swept through Sherlock as his apology spilled from his lips. But there was more than an apology flowing out of him. Words, words, and more words. Damn his speech because the words just weren’t stopping. Faster as faster, as though Sherlock couldn’t speak fast enough anymore, as though he had already run out of time and was struggling to accept it.

            “I love you, John,” Sherlock kept saying. He’d lost count. (Lie, really. He knew he was at his twenty-fifth time, but it wasn’t enough). “Please, just don’t do this. Come down to me.”

            There was nothing. No response, no voice, not even breathing. His eyes were still fixed on John, but it was becoming more difficult. He felt so sick knowing he had driven John to this, to know they were in the exact same spot as they were two years ago because Sherlock had lied.

            Sherlock looked away, angry with himself for being weak, for being unable to face his guilt. He wondered how John had been able to do it two years ago. Their eyes had stayed glued to each other’s until Sherlock had jumped and then after too. The whole time. Sherlock had seen every expression that had crossed John’s face that moment, and it had nearly broke him then.

            “Please,” Sherlock said again, his voice breaking beneath the weight of it all. “Please, John, just… I-”

            The line cut off and Sherlock’s eyes shot to the roof, his heart just disintegrating away beneath a fast falling darkness. John’s not there.

            “No!” Sherlock cried and pushes himself away from the cab, from the only thing holding him up. He tries to run, his legs not wanting to function anymore. His body fights him, wants to curl up to protect itself from the oncoming pain. He doesn’t know what keeps him going as he dodges a car in the street or as he runs through people.

            Something slams into Sherlock, and he goes down. The jolt scrambles Sherlock’s thoughts, but they’re all still firmly on John. Only, now, it hurts more. He cries out. He knows he’s too late. John’s dead. It’s his fault.

            It’s all his fault.

            His fault.

            His fault.

            HIS FAULT!

            Sherlock cries out again as whatever slammed into him moves away. There’s a sound, but it’s nothing compared to the shattered noise tearing Sherlock’s throat. Tears are flooding his eyes. Actual tears.

            “SHERLOCK!” the voice breaks through, and it is indeed a voice. So familiar it warms Sherlock’s insides instantly and he stops. He opens his eyes and John’s there. Like a miracle.

            Without thought, Sherlock just pulls the doctor into his arms, taking him in. Appreciating every bit of him. Grateful that he’s alive. But Sherlock still feels guilt chipping away at his heart. John’s lost weight. A lot of weight. He wreaks of alcohol and… is that cigarette smoke?

            Sherlock presses his lips to John, not giving a damn. He recognizes the cigarette brand as his own, and the guilt knocks off another chunk of his heart. He did this. He needs to make up for it.

            Hands push through Sherlock’s curls and pulls him closer. He hears his name being said, panted, between kisses. It’s a relieved sound. It’s happy. It’s a little slurred.

            Sherlock pulls John closer. He can’t pull him close enough. Before he even knows it, they’ve stopped kissing and are simply holding each other. They’re still on the ground and people are watching, but neither of them give a damn. Sherlock knows he certainly doesn’t. The only person he cares about is John, and John is there. John is in his arms. John is alive.

            “I love you too,” John whispers hoarsely into Sherlock’s neck.

 

            As soon as his lips touch Sherlock’s something sparks in his heart as well as his mind. It reminded himself of the night he had met Sherlock. Of how it felt to run around town like a madman chasing an actual madman. He’d been so happy than, so full of life. Thanks to Sherlock.

            A laugh damn nearly escapes his lips as he thinks about it, but instead he smiles into their kiss, realizing he loved Sherlock even then. Sherlock always managed to give him a life worth living and he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers again.

 

 

            The city settles into sleep just outside their window and they attempt to do the same inside their flat. John is already beneath the covers, a smile on his face as he closes his eyes. He’s waiting for Sherlock to switch of the lights and finally join him. It wasn’t taking long, John knew, but it still felt like it was taking forever. He craved the feel of Sherlock’s body curling around his, the feel of the warm that radiated from him.

            It’s been years since Sherlock’s return; years since they first said they loved each other; years since they promised to never leave the other behind. Nothing since they said those things has changed. They kept to their word. Sherlock never fails to say how much he loves John every day, though it took a long while for the guilt to finally fade from his gaze as he did so- though, John knows Sherlock still thinks about it, still lets it haunt him even though John has long since forgiven him.

            Finally after the lights are out, John hears the footsteps and feels the dip in the mattress. He smiles a little wider. It’s a smile that’s no longer broken, but strong and profoundly happy. It’s a smile so full of love and relief because that’s his life now. Relief and love. Every single day. John wakes up, relieved to know it wasn’t all a dream. He wakes up every morning still happy.

            Sherlock’s arms wrap around John’s waist and he scoots himself closer. It takes a moment of adjusting and cover sorting, but they easily find themselves in a comfortable position. When they’re all settled, John laces his fingers through Sherlock’s and brings the other man’s knuckles to his lips.

            The light shinning in from their window catches Sherlock’s wedding band and John can’t help but take a moment to appreciate it. He can’t help but take a moment to think about all that has led them to each other before they met and what kept them together after all that time. He can’t help appreciate what it all added up to, them sharing their life, their last name (Watson because Sherlock refused to have it any other way. God forbid John want to be a Holmes), their bed. And for more than just sex- though that was pretty damn great since Sherlock took no time at all memorizing nearly every bleeding article online about the most erotic things one could do.

            Their bed, sharing it, it was more than just something superficial. It had meaning. It was everything they had ever wanted because there was practically nothing better than laying down the person one cares most for in the world.

            “I love you, John,” Sherlock whispered softly, already sounding half asleep.

            John kissed Sherlock’s knuckles, letting the memories fall away for the night and smiled. “I love you too, Sherlock,” he replied, shifting even closer to Sherlock as he closed his eyes. 


End file.
